Take Me Back to the Start
by ournoisyhearts
Summary: They've been through a lot, and for once, Dean doesn't mind being Sam's personal pillow. Wincest.


When Sam was young, around five or six, he would sleep with Dean almost every night. Dean, who'd never been a big fan of physical contact, would grunt and groan as Sam squirmed around beside him, his then-tiny body knocking Dean in the ribs every once and awhile. It was a hassle, and annoying as hell, but Dean kept his mouth shut because he knew Sammy only wanted to make sure Dean was there, that he wasn't going anywhere.

Sleeping next to his big brother had been the only way Sam could make sure Dean was safe, that the thing that had taken his mommy hadn't gotten to Dean too. It stayed that way for years, Sam crossing whatever dark motel room they were staying in and curling up next to his brother when their dad was away. He liked sleeping next to Dean. Dean was big, and warm, and _safe._ He was like Sam's own personal pillow, and Sam liked that. He liked it a lot.

After Dean turned thirteen, he started turning Sam away whenever he tried to climb into bed with him.

Sam, who'd been raised far from normal, still had yet to understand that most nine year olds didn't sleep with their big brothers. Dean would shoo him away with a grunt and Sam would slip back into his own bed dejectedly, sniffing and whimpering until he finally fell asleep. This phase ended less than a year later, when Sam finally realized that if you wanted to be cool you couldn't spend the night sharing a bed with your older brother. The crying stopped, and Dean could finally sleep in peace, Sam snoring softly across the room from him. Unfortunately, Dean had a much harder time getting to sleep this way, even though it killed him to admit it. He hated feeling like Sam was finally growing up, _his Sammy,_ and that one day he might decide Dean wasn't enough for him and take off. He couldn't bear to see that happen.

Sam broke his leg when he was twelve. It happened while John was gone, on a hunt. The cell phone he'd used as the emergency number for current middle school Sam was attending had started ringing in the middle of the day while Dean was busy reloading some weapons. As soon as the secretary had said _Samuel's been hurt _Dean was out of his chair and in the Impala, speeding towards the local hospital.

"He'd been helping put pictures up on a bulletin board and fallen off the ladder," said the doctor when Dean rushed into Sam's room. His little brother was lying on a white cot, his leg three times its normal size with a thick white cast wrapped around. Dean pushed past the man in the white coat and crouched down beside his brother, who looked heavily drowsy from all the pain killers.

"Nice one, Sammy," he'd murmured, brushing his brother's bangs out of his face. Sam had smiled at him weakly, humming _Dean _softly before passing out.

Sam was allowed to go home a few days later (with crutches, sadly), and for the first few days after Dean had to help him do everything. Get in and out of the car, climb out of bed, walk to the bathroom. For those few weeks, Sam was the weakest he'd been in three years, moaning in pain and struggling with almost everything. One night, he'd cried out, "Dean, it _hurts," _and Dean had jumped out of his own bed, helping Sam get situated before lying down carefully beside him. Sam gripped Dean's fist tightly in his own that night, crying and whimpering into his brother's side. He's missed this, Dean, his own personal pillow, so he sucked every drop out of the situation he could get.

As Sam turned sixteen, he suddenly shot up, growing past Dean in the blink of an eye. His teenage flub disappeared, and was soon replaced with firm muscle all over. Dean had to stop and stare every once in awhile, because seriously? This wasn't the same geeky brother he'd grown up. Well, he was still geeky, but that was just Sam. He started coming with dad and Dean on hunts more often, but still insisted on attending high school, which John hated. Sam would lock himself in the bathroom some nights to study while John cracked open a six pack and shared it with Dean, mumbling _don't go telling the police, _and Dean only wished his little brother didn't want "normal" so bad.

By the time Sam turned eighteen and graduated high school, Dean stopped wishing. He knew Sam had applied to college; it was obvious, the way he pestered Dean every day when he went to check their post office box. "Anything for me?" He would ask, trying to seem nonchalant, but Dean could see right through his charade. Unfortunately, John was oblivious so when Sam broke the news about his Stanford scholarship, he exploded.

Dean drove Sam to the bus stop the day he left, his mouth shut tight and fingers gripped tightly around the steering wheel. He didn't say a word as Sam climbed out of the car, single duffel bag in hand, and shut the door. In their own way, they both knew that he'd just shut Dean out of his life.

That was why he was so surprised when Dean showed up at the place he shared with Jess three years later, saying that dad was missing. He saw something in Dean's eyes, the whole time he joked around with Jess and acted like the careless dick he was, something that screamed _I'm scared, Sammy._ _So scared. _As they hunted the woman in white, Dean would constantly grab at Sam's jacket, or his elbow, just to make sure he was still there like Sam would do when he was little. It unnerved Sam, how much his brother had changed, but he knew Dean probably felt the same way about him. When they returned to Stanford that night, and Jess had burst into flames on the ceiling, it only reinstated the fact that Dean was there, and he really was all Sam had. All he'd ever had.

The night of Jessica's death, Dean had driven the two of them to the closest motel he could find, handed Sam one of his t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants, and forced him to bed. Sam had refused to sleep on his back, curling into himself on his side instead and crying into his pillow, his racked sobs filling the tiny room. At some point, neither of them were sure when, Dean grunted and crossed the room, slipping into bed beside Sam. His little brother instantly rolled over and shriveled up against Dean, pressing his face into the nook between his neck and his shoulder. Eventually the crying quieted, and soon his breathing was even, hands clutched into Dean's shirt. Dean felt guilty for enjoying Sam's close presence so much, knowing that it never would have happened if his girlfriend hadn't just been killed. Still, he stayed where he was, baby brother pressed up against him as he slept.

When John died, the roles reversed. Dean didn't _cry-_ he wasn't that much of a pansy- and if he'd had any say in the matter, he wouldn't have let Sam wrap an arm around his shoulders and hold him there. Their dad's death was tough on both of them, Dean knew, but he also knew that Sam hadn't respected dad the way he had. It was different for him.

They really were all each other had left.

Sam's dying and coming back to life struck something in Dean. It was like a kick in the face, saying, _he could be gone one day. He will be gone one day._ Seeing Sam's corpse laying on that table, then seeing his warm, living body literally minutes after, screwed up. He'd spend so much time worrying about Sam, making sure he was okay, that he'd forget he should be worrying about _himself,_ about the fact that he was going to Hell. He was going to Hell, and as Sam liked to constantly remind him, there was no way out of it.

Still, Dean would spend every second thinking about Sam, looking over at him in the passenger seat of the Impala just to reassure himself that yes, Sam was still there, still alive. Sam would laugh at his brother's possessiveness, but deep down, it scared him to death. Dean was going to Hell and soon, he wouldn't be there to protect Sam anymore.

By the time Dean finally did go to Hell, Sam was numb more than anything. The only thing he can recall exactly is Ruby, teaching him, training him. He was finally getting the hang of exorcising demons with his mind, the headaches lessening each time he tried, when Dean came back. At first, he couldn't believe it. Nobody he'd known of had _ever _come back from Hell. But Dean had, and that was enough for Sam. He held Dean close for the first month or so, always grabbing at him and touching him, telling himself that Dean was real. The roles had been reversed, _again,_ but Sam didn't mind. Once again, he had his person pillow there beside him, grounding him. It was nice to know that Dean was there, protecting him like he'd always been.

Ruby coming between them had been the last thing either of them had expected. Sam lost his pillow, and worse, he lost his brother, both while also accidentally setting off the apocalypse in the process.

They were never the same after that, not with the addition of Castiel to their little team, trying to save the world. Dean always seemed so tired and worn, ready to give up at any second, and Sam desperately tried to convince his brother that they could do this, they could. Even if they were both meat puppets, even if God didn't care, even if Castiel wasn't really an angel anymore, _they could do it._ Dean would often shake his head, mumble _no we can't, Sammy, _and keep his space, but with Sam constantly nagging at him, puppy dog eyes and all, he gave in. Sam was his baby brother, for fuck's sake. He wasn't going to let him down.

At first, with Dean's newly restored faith in his brother, the touches were still distant, unsure. Soon, though, he would clap Sam on the back in appreciation, or grip his forearm in panic, depending on the circumstances. It was nice, finally starting to get back to the way they were, the way they were before Hell, before the 66 Seals, before the apocalypse.

Sam's to plan to gain control of his body back from Lucifer seemed like a death sentence, in Dean's opinion. Sam was strong, but strong enough to control the devil? It sounded highly unlikely. Still, he'd made a deal with Death, and he wasn't going to screw it up.

_You can't cheat Death, Dean._

Now, they have a plan- Dean, Sam, Cas, Bobby, and Crowley (team free will seems to be growing by the second) - and Dean's not about to back out because he's worried for his brother. He's been worried before, and Sam's always made it out in the end. _Always._ Dean keeps telling himself that that's still the case, that Sam can do it, but as he watches his baby brother's chest rise and fall in the dark from the bed across from him, Dean kind of just wants to cry.

"Whatsa' matter?" Sam mumbles sleepily, rolling over to face him. Dean can make out his brother's profile in the dark, from the sharpness of his jaw to the round end of his nose. For a second, the sight makes him dizzy as he starts to think _what if?_ Quickly, he shakes those thoughts of his head and is out of his own bed without a second thought, sliding under the sheets next to Sam.

"I- nothing," he whispers, resting his head on the pillow beside Sam's. Their bodies are barely brushing, just the edge of sweatpants under the sheets, but seconds later Sam buries his face into Dean's neck and wraps an arm around his stomach. He hums softly in content and Dean runs his fingers through his brother's long hair, memorizing the feeling of it in his hands.

"I'll be fine, you know," Sam says finally, his lips ghosting across Dean's skin.

"Yeah. I know," Dean replies, allowing his eyes to close and for once, he doesn't mind being Sam's personal pillow.


End file.
